Nor what she's like,
Tho' that might serve as well,
If it I dared attempt.
Perhaps if I could here
The muse indite,
What might be like her
I could partly write,
And of her give a glimpse.
Did not bleak winter's
Storms and clouds obscure
At times his glorious
Face and pure,
The sun might be like her.
Did spring remain forever
Fresh and young,
Replete with daisies
To be walked among,—
Then spring would be like her.
Could summer always keep
Her rich renown,
And ne'er succumb to
Autumn's frost and frown,—
Then summer were like her.
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